


Incendiary

by sasha_b



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-01
Updated: 2011-07-01
Packaged: 2017-10-20 22:03:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/217541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sasha_b/pseuds/sasha_b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A training mishap and Erik's rage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Incendiary

The boy twists his body again and again, and Charles stands in the middle of the field, a tiny dark haired midpoint between the mansion and the satellite dish. He is smiling; he trusts the boy. The boy is getting so much better at his aim, so much more confident. Charles hopes that he had a little to do with that; he loves the children, no matter where they came from or what their abilities are. He finds it a constant source of pride – and some amusement – that they seem to be able to focus better with his help.

He was born to do this – witness Raven.

And Erik.

His thoughts turn to the other man; he can feel Erik’s emotions without having to reach or strain. So full of everything, every primal and base feeling Charles has ever studied or truth be told felt himself. His full lips turn up; Erik is lifting weights, mind quiet, distraction free –

 _I’m almost there_

Charles blinks. The rage rises from nowhere, even as Erik continues to heft the iron bars up and down, up and down, sweat sliding down the side of his aquiline nose. Charles lifts his hand to his face, wiping at the _drip_ he can feel even as he allows the anger to surge through him he’s stealing from Erik.

A blossom of unexpected white hot pain lifts him from his feet and slams him on his back, his head and hand catching the side of a bench that’s placed strategically along the walkway they’re standing near.

The boy rushes to him, holding his head up even as blood slippery slides from Charles’ nose, the red coating his lip with sticky hot fluid. His brain whirls – remember that merry go round? – as he tries to sit with the aid of Alex’s arms, but he is dizzy and he turns to the side and vomits into the grass.

Alex is screaming, crying words _I’m sorry, professor!_ over and over, his lanky body trying to pick Charles up, but Charles is too dingy, too fuzzy to reassure the boy. He tries to pat Alex’s shoulder, but the pain from where he’s smacked his hand on the bench forces the appendage to the ground. He lays at any awkward angle, limbs akimbo, sweatsuit stained by the grass that is now threatening to itch him to death.

The sun is bright in the sky, burning into his eyes as he stares at it sideways, even as Alex tries to lay him back down, saying _I’m going to get help, professor_. He attempts to nod and his eyes tear up from the motion – he doesn’t remember being this sick in – he can’t remember. His head throbs, and he squinches his eyes shut and he hurts. The whole world hurts as Charles touches his temple and reflects oddly on the last image he can dredge up -

He vaguely hears Alex whimper, and suddenly the boy is jerked from him, Charles blinking as the sun is shining full in his face. The creaking of metal is loud in his ears, the shrieking and ripping tearing a hole in his already shaky brain function.

He sits as Alex screams, forcing himself up to his feet, his nose foutaining more blood, and he reaches out a hand in supplication, wavering on his feet.

“Erik, NO! It was an accident!”

Alex is hanging in midair, suspended from – _is that the bench?_ – a thick piece of iron band that’s wrapped about his midsection, the thin edges of the bars at the top slowly crawling their way toward his throat. Erik stands below him, his back to Charles, shirtless and motionless, as though he’s not run the five hundred yards to get to where Charles is.

Charles, teetering, stumbling, his hand fumbling under his bleeding nose, totters to Erik and raises his hand, touching the other man’s rock hard shoulder. Erik is barely breathing, his nostrils flared, his eyes wide open and as Charles approaches him more closely (he can feel the heat coming off Erik’s torso, the scars…everywhere, scars) he can see that Erik’s pupils are fully dilated.

His left hand is raised as Alex chokes on metal.

“Erik,” Charles whispers. He grips at the sweaty muscle. “Don’t do this. It was an accident, he didn’t mean it.”

 _creak_

“Professor,” Alex cries, his voice tiny and tight and terrified. “I didn’t – ”

“I know you didn’t, Alex,” Charles says, projecting calm around himself and others like a wave; if he can get Erik to even look at him, once, he could – but would he?

Alex is twisting; Erik is turning his hand, the metal he commands taking the boy upside down, his hair hanging straight toward the earth. No strain in Erik’s face; Charles would weep with pride for the other man’s obvious control, but right now, this moment, Alex is the focus.

“Please, Erik. Stop this. He’s not done anything.”

“He hurt you. I could feel it even there,” Erik’s voice is nonchalant, murmuring, as though they’re merely chatting about the weather. He jerks his head toward the mansion, and Alex bobs and screams. The sunlight fractures off the torn up bench that holds Alex in the air, sparkling prettily even as Charles begins to formulate a plan –

He raises his left hand and touches his temple, fingers shaking, stomach twisting, and before Erik can react or force a no from Charles’ conflicted brain, Charles places his right hand on the base of Erik’s skull. The sweaty hair twists around Charles’ fingers and he _thinks_  
He can feel the sun and he can feel the blood dripping from his nose and the dizziness that has invaded his entire body but he thinks _Erik_ and other thoughts, betraying thoughts, and slowly, slowly the iron around Alex unwinds and the boy is dropped unceremoniously to the ground as the torn bench lands next to him.

Charles reaches out for Alex even as the boy gets to his feet and stumbling, caroms past them, heading for the mansion. He does not stop, not even as Charles turns toward him and calls him name once, twice.

When he turns back to Erik, the other man is shaking his head slowly, like an animal waking from a drug induced sleep.

 _I’ve been a lab rat, Charles. I know one when I see one._

He blinks and rubs the back of his neck; Charles breathes a sigh of relief at the sight of Erik’s eyes, normal blue-green, intense, yes, but the black of the pupil has receded to normal size. He staggers to the collapsed bench and sits haphazardly on one edge; the only part that even resembles what it was. Blood finally, sluggishly comes to a halt as he, sick and nauseated, pinches his forehead between his hands.

Perhaps Erik won’t realize.

“You were in my head. Again.”

“You wouldn’t stop,” Charles says tiredly, his brain still fuzzy from the knock to his skull. “I had to protect Alex.”

“You didn’t have to do it like that.”

Erik’s trust, already tremulous and tortured, shatters inside Charles’ mind. He winces as he can feel the brick wall slip back into place, the other man’s sharp features a puzzle like network of feelings that Charles can’t fathom or fix. Charles aches, and it’s not from the damage he’s received from Alex knocking him off his feet with his latent powers.

He knows Erik’s mind, knows what the other man’s done and where he’s been and what he’s been through and _I’ve been a lab rat, Charles._

Erik turns and kneels in front of Charles, the long fingers of his right hand wiping under Charles’ nose, delicate and deliberate. He holds the fingers up, spread, the source of his power. Sticky viscous fluid coats them and Charles’ blue eyes catch his and hold them.

“This is all that matters, in the end. Blood and honor. Men that follow orders, men that do anything to get what they want, men that took my people from me and destroyed my family. You invaded my mind without my say so, Charles.” He stands and looks down at his fingers.

Charles opens his mouth, wanting to say something, anything, but the large bump on his head and the bruises on his hand are throbbing and swelling and he’s not sure he can stand much less walk. And Erik, god, Erik.

Erik takes a few steps away, hesitates, still looking at his hands, holding them up, light from the sun making them see through and paper thin.

Charles waits.

Finally Erik returns to his side and slides an arm under Charles’ battered torso, and lifts him to a standing position. They walk together toward the mansion, Erik’s sweatpants drooping on his lean hips, the bone banging into Charles’ soft side with every step, the pain slight and welcomed. Charles briefly thinks he deserves much more pain than that.

“You do.”

When they reach the kitchen, Raven is there, and she takes Charles from Erik, fussing over him, leading him to the table, finding a bandage and going for aspirin.

Charles sits at the table, head in his hands, and listens as Erik’s steps thud up the stairs as the other man retreats from him and from the world in general. When Raven returns he looks up and tries to smile at her and lets her take care of him, her gentle fussing and hand on his forehead – blue, then white, then blue – a balm he finds he wants, selfish even now.

Pain echoes in the silent places in his brain, the places he’s found Erik can fill.


End file.
